


A Whisper of Revenge

by blunted_edge



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blunted_edge/pseuds/blunted_edge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Orsimer returns to his stronghold.</p>
<p>The ashes have blown away and the embers are cool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Whisper of Revenge

The ashes have blown away and the embers are cool. 

Orgub stands among the remains of his stronghold, staring down at the frozen corpse of his father and breathing out clouds of his own soul into the bitter air of winter. His family is dead, slaughtered like pigs, and his home has been burnt near to the ground. 

He doesn't understand. There are gifts in the bag on his shoulder. Where are they supposed to go? He's staring at the corpse of his father and wondering if he should set the necklace of carved lizard teeth on the withered chest. He doesn't _understand._

How could this happen? Was he supposed to be here to help defend his home instead of pledging himself to the Legion? Was this Malacath's vindication?

Everything is frozen; the deaths are old and the destruction is near complete. Whatever had wreaked havoc even took the time to reduce the small, three hand-length high shrine into nothing more than rubble and a whisper of revenge. It's the sight of the desecrated image of Malacath that makes Orgub register something other than numb shock. 

He's sick of staring at the wreck. He needs to know who's dead and who did this. He's _furious._ The imperial armor is too warm; it chafes against his shoulders where the standard-issue gambeson fits badly. 

Orgub drops his bag to shed his thin breastplate and suit of mail angrily, fingers trembling against the clasps and hooks. It's thrown onto the dirt irreverently. The quilted underarmor follows it, and he's left in a threadbare linen shirt and pteruges staring at his home wondering _why._

Where is his mother? Where is the wise woman? His baby sister? Oh, Malacath, she might've only been sixteen when this happened. He'd missed her birth-day. The thought makes him ill. There's a set of pigments in his bag for her, to make up for his absence, but... 

He needs to build them a proper funeral pyre. That means finding all of them - through the wreckage, the fire, the decay that must have set in - and moving their bodies. Orgub tilts his head briefly up to the sky, squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to deny the truth of what has happened or to dam the urge to shed tears. 

A heat starts up in his eyes that spreads through his body. He's burning with them, crumbling into ashes, and the smoke is the clouds of breath he gasps out into the uncaring winter air. The only thing left to do is gather his family so they can all be set afire together. 

He does so. 


End file.
